09 - Dead Men Walking

by Steve Lyons - (ebook by Undead)

  Costellin saw Lomax too, hammering on the closed gate of a fourth cage, wrenching the gate from its hinges even though the platform within was already full and rising away from him. Necrons swooped upon the tech-priest from each side, but even as they reached him Costellin was carried through the cavern roof and into a dark stone shaft, and therefore doubtless spared another grisly image to add to his nightmares.

  He wasn’t safe yet.

  He ordered the grenadiers back to the platform’s edges. There was little room to spare, but they did manage to clear a tiny space between them, upon which Costellin had them train their weapons. A minute passed, and he began to feel the precaution had not been necessary. Then, a necron ghost came screaming up through the floor, and four hellguns barked—Costellin’s plasma pistol would have burnt off the feet of all present—and the foul thing died, then twitched back to life, then died again beneath a second salvo of las-beams.

  Another minute and a half went by, the weight of the dead necron’s skull against Costellin’s foot making his flesh crawl. There were no further intruders, however, and he began to think they had survived the worst of this encounter.

  Then the platform shuddered to a halt, and the blue lights along its edges blinked out. “Golden Throne!” he cursed. “They must have destroyed the power source from the Termite. We’re trapped down here!”

  “We can climb, sir,” a grenadier suggested, indicating the four rusted but stout chains that had been pulling them upwards. Costellin didn’t much care for that prospect, and he tried to vox the lieutenant on the surface, hoping there might be a manual winch up there for use in just such an emergency. He received no reply, and, switching to a general channel, picked up only static. Frustrated, he tore the comm-bead from his ear. On top of everything else, now they had lost the vox-caster too.

  “All right,” he said resignedly. “Climbing it is, and we had best be quick. We don’t know how much longer our comrades below us can hold out. There could be more of those creatures snapping at our heels at any moment. Worse, they could have reported our position to their main force. There could be an army of necrons heading for the top of this shaft as I speak, and if they reach it before we do…” He didn’t have to spell out the consequences of such a disaster.

  Two grenadiers had already taken a chain each. They braced their feet against the side of the lifter shaft and hauled themselves upwards, their lamp-packs attached to the bayonets of their hellguns and bobbing around like fireflies in the dark. The other two followed a moment later, which left only Costellin himself.

  He tugged at a chain, and his gloves came away slick with oil. He didn’t know how much further this shaft ran, didn’t know if, lacking the youthful strength of the grenadiers, he could make it up, but what choice did he have other than to try?

  He began to climb.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Another day, like the same day. Another twelve hours of labouring in the rubble, trying not to think. The only recent variation was that work shifts had been shortened to accommodate acts of worship, of which Amareth led three per day at dawn, noon and sunset. By this, the third day, Arex had become, if not exactly comfortable with these, then at least more tolerant of them. She was grateful for the respite they offered her from her work and for the protection of the temple building from the budding cold of winter. She wondered if this made her a sinner.

  During the first service, two men had leapt up in protest, and Arex had wished for their courage… until Amareth had had them brought forward, put a laser pistol to their heads and despatched them “to the Iron Gods’ mercy”. There had been no more objections since then.

  The temple bells began to peal now, and Arex laid down her shovel and joined the shuffling line of slaves being herded towards the sound. She hadn’t realised the morning had grown so old. She looked for Tylar, her stomach knotting when she couldn’t see him. What if he had lost track of the time too, and wasn’t back yet?

  What if Amareth had chosen today to take her to the pyramid?

  “He’s afraid,” Tylar had whispered to her last night, as they had lain together in the darkness of the lectorum. “Amareth is afraid that, when he goes to his gods, they’ll reject him or worse. He is desperate for their endorsement but, in order to have that, first he must risk everything he has gained, risk his very life.”

  “Then he might not do it?” Arex had breathed. “He might not dare to.”

  “He will do it,” Tylar had answered grimly. “Amareth is insecure, desirous of the power and the status he believes the Iron Gods can give him. He knows the risk, that is why he is holding back—but he will take it soon.”

  This morning, he had left Arex to work alone, and she had scolded herself for missing him so much. He had become so important to her in so short a time. Her lifeline, her hope. They had had no choice, though. Tylar had to make plans, and he couldn’t do that around her. She was being too closely monitored.

  She trudged into the temple, the painted skull above its doors no longer even giving her pause. The congregation filled only the front few pews, but still this was an increase on yesterday’s attendance. Amareth had ordained several of his overseers, elevating favoured slaves to replace them. He had sent his new priests out to “spread the word”, and they had returned with numerous grateful refugees.

  Arex craned her neck, looking for Tylar amid the throng but not finding him.

  “I think the overseers are getting complacent,” he had said last night, “and some of them are new to the job and enjoying the opportunity to lord it over the rest of us but doing little else. Added to that, they’re having to follow you around wherever you go. I think, if I time it right, I can slip away.”

  Perhaps he had done just that, Arex thought. Perhaps he had escaped and, despite his best intentions, he had seen the futility of returning for her and decided to save himself. She wouldn’t have blamed him.

  Many of the slaves had painted their faces in emulation of the priests. The most popular design was a sun symbol on the forehead. It seemed that, with each new day, Arex was being dragged further into a pit of madness, and she feared she didn’t have the strength to remain afloat much longer.

  She half-listened to another pious sermon from Amareth, sitting, standing, kneeling as instructed, all the time sandwiched between two overseers. She mouthed the words of the new, heretical catechisms but refused to give them voice. When heads were bowed in prayer to the Iron Gods, Arex entreated silently with the Emperor instead. She mentioned Gunthar, as she did every day, but today she also prayed for Tylar. She asked the Emperor to keep him safe, wherever he might be.

  She ought to have known, by now, what His answer would be.

  The service was over, the congregation filing out, when two overseers appeared, pushing against the tide. They carried a third figure between them, his feet dragging behind him, his face a mass of bruises. He had obviously been beaten.

  “We have found him, Lord Amareth,” crowed one of the escorts. “We have found the deserter, the heretic!”

  “I am loyal to the God-Emperor of Mankind,” spat the prisoner. “I am not the heretic here.” It was Tylar, of course, and Arex’s hand flew to her mouth in dismay as he was hauled along the nave, past her row of pews. Her legs felt weak and she made to sit down, but her overseer guards hauled her upright again.

  “His name is Tylar, my lord. He was absent from work detail this morning, and discovered near the High Temple.”

  Tylar had reached the looming figure of Amareth now, and was forced to his knees before him. The High Priest’s expression was unreadable behind his skull mask and, when he spoke, his baritone voice was likewise devoid of emotion. “You have sought to defy the gods,” he proclaimed, and Arex couldn’t tell if he was disappointed, angry or perhaps even glad of this excuse to flaunt his newfound power. “Have they not preached, through me, that to do so is to bring down their justice upon us all?”

  “Your gods are evil,” spat Tylar. “It doesn’t matte
r what you do, how you try to please them. They will destroy you as they have destroyed all else they have touched.”

  “That will be the last blasphemy you utter,” said Amareth, perfectly calmly, and a tear caught in Arex’s throat as he drew his pistol out from beneath his vestments.

  “I don’t think it will,” said Tylar, “because you see, ‘Lord Amareth’, you aren’t the only one who can find a fallen soldier in these ruins. You aren’t the only one who can scavenge his equipment. I had to go all the way to the xenos pyramid to collect this prize, but I think it was well worth the trip.”

  The slaves who had started to leave had returned, had begun to edge forward, ghoulishly eager to witness this heretic’s fate. Now, a susurrant horror spread through them and they drew back again. Tylar climbed to his feet, unimpeded by the overseers to each side of him, and even Amareth himself was suddenly deflated.

  Tylar was holding something, and at last Arex could make it out: a red, ovoid shape, stamped with the stark black image of a skull and crossbones. “This,” said Tylar, “is a krak grenade. It’s designed to blow through tank armour, so its blast is far stronger and more concentrated than that of the more familiar frag grenade. If I were to pull this pin now, trust me, there would be no chance of any of us surviving with shrapnel wounds, least of all our self-appointed, self-serving High Priest here.”

  “The Iron Gods will protect me,” said Amareth, but he sounded less than sure of this.

  “What… what do you want?” stammered one of the overseers.

  “What I want,” said Tylar, “more than almost anything else at this moment, is to do it, to put an end to this lunatic cult. I want to bring down this roof, and I would give my life for it proudly, but I won’t, because this was a house of the Emperor once and I have faith that it will be again.” He had moved around behind Amareth as he spoke, and now he slipped an arm around his throat. “So, instead, the High Priest and I are going to walk out of here, along with any of these people, these slaves, who wish to come with us, anyone who wishes to be free.”

  “And then what?” sneered Amareth. “You talk of freedom, but people like us, we have never been free. We have only had different masters.”

  “You don’t have to listen to him,” Tylar addressed the crowd. “Amareth claims to speak for his gods, but you must know by now he only speaks for himself.”

  “Walk out of this temple if you will,” challenged Amareth, his confidence regained, his voice a quiet warning that carried nonetheless to every corner. “Fight the gods if you believe they can be overcome. Tempt their wrath if you dare.”

  There was silence then, a long, terrible silence in which Arex felt she could almost have been crushed by the palpable longings and the fears of this downtrodden flock, and she shared those conflicting emotions, her feet like plascrete, weighted to the floor. She needed somebody else to make that first move, but nobody was game. She wanted to scream at them, What are you waiting for? This is your chance!

  Then Tylar reached out to her, and Arex was released.

  As she started towards him, an overseer blocked her path, then saw the threat in Tylar’s eyes and gave way. “We’re leaving now,” said Tylar, “and taking Amareth with us. As soon as we’re clear, and sure that no one is following us, I’ll release him, you have my word on that, and you are welcome to him. If anybody does come after us, however, if even one person steps out of this building…”

  They made for a clumsy procession, the three of them, stumbling towards the doors, Tylar bundling Amareth ahead of him while maintaining his hold on the pin of the krak grenade, Arex behind them, terrified that someone might call their bluff, even more afraid that Tylar might not be bluffing. If anyone did have plans to impede them, however, they were quashed by the High Priest himself.

  “Do as they say,” instructed Amareth. “The gods will take care of them. There is nowhere they can run to.”

  “We don’t have to run,” scoffed Tylar. “We need only hide and wait, for the Emperor’s glorious armies to destroy your so-called gods.”

  Then they were outside, and overseers and priests were crowding the doorway behind them but careful not to cross the threshold, and Arex had hopes that maybe, just maybe, they could make it after all; this desperate plan might actually succeed.

  Then, in his struggle to manoeuvre his hostage down the marble steps, Tylar slipped and Amareth seized his moment. He squirmed free of Tylar’s hold and lunged for his wrist, sending the grenade spinning out of his hand. It bounced, a heart-jolting two, three, four times, on its way across the paved courtyard, and only after it had rolled to a halt in the choked gutter could Arex think again, move again.

  Tylar was yelling at her to grab the grenade, as he and Amareth wrestled. She ran for it, but overseers were on her heels and Arex howled in anguish as they fell upon her, bore her down. She hit the plascrete, her outstretched hand just a few centimetres short of her target. She strained her shoulder, her arm, her fingers, but the grenade was scooped up, whisked out of her reach. In the meantime, Tylar had disappeared beneath a heaving mound of attackers from which Amareth now gracefully extracted himself, adjusting his skull mask, and just like that they had failed. It was over.

  Arex tried to stand but she only got as far as her knees. A jeering crowd was forming around her; her hands were pulled behind her back and secured with proctor handcuffs. She was joined by Tylar, who was similarly manacled, and the crowd were baying for the blood of them both, but silence descended as Amareth marched through them. As he stopped before his prisoners, as he called for the pistol he had dropped in the church. A nervous overseer scuttled forward with the krak grenade and asked what he should do with it, and a recoiling Amareth ordered him to disarm it, somewhere far away from here, and waved away his protestations that he didn’t know how.

  “Do what you like with me,” pleaded Tylar, “but I beg of you, if there is a compassionate feeling left in you, spare Arex. She bears no blame for my actions. She only came with me because… because we are betrothed.”

  Arex’s heart gave a lurch at that. She knew it had been a desperate bluff, but still she felt she was betraying Gunthar somehow by allowing the words to stand.

  “You needn’t concern yourself,” said Amareth and, although Arex couldn’t see his face, she could hear the smirk in his voice. “The girl will not die, at least not yet, not by my hand. It so happens that, when I communed with the Iron Gods but an hour ago, they made their intentions for Lady Hanrik perfectly clear to me.”

  An eager priest jogged up behind Amareth and handed him his weapon, which he levelled at Tylar’s head once more. Tylar closed his eyes, waited to die, but then the gun was lowered. “The two of you are betrothed?” Amareth repeated. “Then we have been doubly blessed, to be sent two members of our former Governor’s spoilt brood. I will present you both to the Iron Gods, to do with as they will.”

  His words were underscored by the crump of an explosion from somewhere behind the schola. The nervous overseer, it seemed, had not been understating his bomb disposal skills, but Arex was too wrapped up in herself, too numb, even to react to the sound. Tylar’s lie had bought him time, and kept the two of them together, and for both of these things she was grateful. She couldn’t help but fear, though, that soon they might both wish they had been granted a swift death.

  Amareth had whistled up a PDF truck, in itself evidence of his growing influence. Arex and Tylar were bundled into its rear, cuffed and surrounded by a score of emerald-cloaked priests. The “High Temple” wasn’t far—Tylar had made the return trip on foot this morning—but Amareth wished to travel in what now passed for style.

  Arex’s first glimpse of the black pyramid was across a skyway railing, its sheer stone face blotting out the gap between two lonely towers, and it seemed to her that it was sucking all light, all hope, from the world.

  Even Amareth couldn’t make the lifters work without power, so they faced a long slog down a hab-block staircase. Several times, Arex stumbled,
her bound hands throwing her off-balance, and once she managed to topple four priests like dominoes. Whenever this happened, they cursed and made threats towards her, or just gloated about her likely fate once the Iron Gods had her. Tylar jumped to Arex’s defence each time, but she didn’t have the spirit to argue for herself anymore.

  They sloshed through the filth of the undercity, and Arex remembered a time, not so long ago, when she had leaned over a railing and gazed down into this alien world with a thrill in her heart. She had dreamed about seeing these streets close up, but never like this. She was aware of mutant eyes, watching her from the shadows, but they maintained their distance. Perhaps it was Amareth’s skull mask and sceptre that kept them at bay. It seemed that they too recognised their masters.

  They found more mutants, and a few human beings, labouring in the rubble as the slaves did above. Arex didn’t know whether to feel sorry for them or despise them. As she wrestled with this dilemma, she almost walked into a creature from a nightmare.

  She flinched from it, catching her breath. She had only seen these cadaverous horrors from a distance before. An impassive metal skull swung around to face her, pinpoints of green light flaring in its eyeholes, and Arex found her soul transfixed by an image of death made chillingly incarnate. She tried to back away from it, but Amareth’s priests barred her path. Evidently, however, she held no interest for the creature, and it turned and proceeded on its way, the priests parting obsequiously for it.

  “Last chance to back out of this, Amareth,” muttered Tylar as they neared their objective. In the green light that spilled out from the pyramid’s innards, many more of the metal cadavers scurried to and fro, some wheeling barrows full of debris, their work conducted in eerie silence, the purpose of their toils unknowable.